


Personal Rewards

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s all over. The game was won. The ultimate prize? Everyone came back to life. The Strider guardians have something a little different in mind, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Rewards

It isn't as weird for you as it should have been.

You mean, technically, Dirk is your ectobiological son or some shit, right? But you'd never met him. If Rose hadn't told you he was gonna exist at some point, you never would've even known you had a family. 

And the tall, scarred, muscular douchebag standing next to you had like, no relation to you whatsoever, or something. You have to admit the whole thing made no sense to you. The Egbert kid probably could have explained it better, but for one thing, you didn't particularly care, and also, you didn't actually want to know, because the spiky-haired, anime-shades-wearing fucker standing next to you looks way too good to pass up. 

"What'd'you say we leave them to their reunion and go hunt down some place a little less kiddie-filled?" You ask in a murmured statement that isn't necessarily pointed at him but is totally pointed at him. 

The other guardians politely decline, citing things like "haven't gotten to see them since I died" and other emotional excuses.

Dirk, on the other hand, shrugs. "Why not, I'll get to see the kid later when he's not busy with his friends." 

You decide not to point out anything about the fact that that kid was technically you. Or not. You really don't get how this shit worked. And you don't want to make him think of you as a kid. Unless he was into that. But that might get a little weird.

You stroll along Dave's planet until you find his house. Dirk snorts. "Never thought I'd see that monstrosity again."

"Monstrosity?" you ask. He's right - the thing is enormous, a weird tower of house-parts and things that didn't look architecturally sound - but you see no reason to stop him from talking. Dude had a Texan twang stronger than yours and a voice rougher than a gravel road. You, of course, had cleared the Texan out of your voice - it didn't go with your ironically smooth persona, crafted and sanded down to the precise level required of me by the audience you got hooked on my SBaHJ movies. A Texan accent might have been what people expected from the creator of something called the SBaHJ Moive. They didn't expect a smooth, buttery-voiced motherfucker like you.

"Thing is somehow structurally sound. Can't figure out how."

The Alpha Dirk talked way more than this Dirk. "So. Your whole barely-talking thing. The thing where you don't speak in full sentences. Is that because you've been dead for months? Or because you didn't talk when you were among the living? Was that an inappropriate question? Do you mind inappropriate questions? What's your cut-off for inappropriate questions? Like, if I start asking about your dildo preferences, is that crossing the line, or is that still in the realm of appropriate things to ask -"

"Why? Y'wanna know about my dildo preferences?" The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"Why? Are you planning on telling me?" Holy shit, was that Dave Motherfucking Strider being smooth as all hell? Yes it fucking was. Smooth as all the butter that Paula Dean eats and that Dirk clearly avoided because there was no way he kept his body looking like that on a diet of fried butter and oreos.

"If you're willing to listen."

Your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline. That Texan twang might have been there but there has never, in all existence, in this universe or the last one, been a smoother Texan accent than the one that just came out of Dirk's mouth. "Damn. Your voice is so fuckin' buttery that if I bottled it up we could use it as lube."

"We?"

You follow him up the steps into his house. "Sure. If I'm inventing that shit I want to be the first to use it. There ain't no way I'm lettin' -"

"Careful, Strider, you're getting nervous. Your accent is showing."

He's right. "Weird, ain' - isn't it. I get horny and my accent shows up. You get horny and your accent starts to disappear."

He turns to face you abruptly.

There's a strange smirk on his face that's unfortunately unfamiliar, 'cause you never managed to make your own face to do that. Definitely not for lack of trying, though. You may or may not have spent hours in front of the mirror trying to perfect that facial expression, and you may or may not have failed like never before.

"Why?" He asks, his goddamn smirk not even fucking drooping. "Are you getting horny?"

"Why? Are you?" Goddamn it, it's like all the time you spent being cool in front of reporters went straight down the drain. That drain wasn't even clogged, it's like it was cleaned out using drano or whatever that shit's called, and it's like your coolness is pure liquid, pouring down that drain like it's hunting for something that can only be found in the sewers.

"I think you should take off that goddamn suit. This is the Land of Heat and Clockwork and you're wearing a fuckin' suit."

"Wow. Was that a full sentence? Unbelieveable. If I didn't come from a time when I actually had to shower in Faygo once or twice I'd never be able to believe all those words that just came out of your mouth -"

He's got one hand around your throat, his other hand around your waist, and his mouth at your ear. "You talk too much."

You'd love to disagree except that his teeth are grazing your jawline and _damn_ if that isn't hot as a pizza fresh outta the oven and his hand isn't really around your waist anymore, it's moving down to your ass and - nope, he stopped, he's tracing the line of your pants. "Your hands are fucking  _cold_ , dude, that's not even cool - actually, what am I saying, cold is the very definition of cool, cold and cool are the same fucking things, like  _oh goddamn_ -"

He nipped at your collarbone and now he's staring you down, so close that you can see through both of your shades and into his eyes - a dull orange, probably brighter, but two pairs of shades tend to dim things. "You. Talk. Too. Much." He growls.

You hook a finger into one of his belt loops. He doesn't wear a belt. Judging by the thinness of the material between your finger and the heat of his skin, he doesn't wear underwear, either. "Make me."

A grin flashes across his face. "Looks like it's working already."

You pull his hips up against yours and press your mouth against his. He's about half an inch taller than you and he is somehow making that half-inch seem like miles, making you work for your make-out sessions, like he's paying you for this shit and he's not but he should be because you are the fucking best at making out, at exploring mouths like they're caves and your tongue is a fucking spelunker and your tongue is damn good at its job. 

He still manages to take control, and you're not quite sure how, but suddenly, he's got your back against the wall and that's not fair he's flashstepping that's  _your_ thing but he's faster than you are and  _shit_ his pants are thin, you can feel every goddamn thing and whoops now you can't because your pants are unbuttoned and you can feel his palm through your underwear, working your confused half-erection into a totally decisive full-blown hard-on and you can't help it, you're panting into his mouth now like a teenage boy having sex for the first time.

He grins against your mouth. "Friggin adorable. You wear underwear."

You frown. "Do you know how expensive these pants were? There's no way I'd risk -"

He's kissing you again, like his mouth is a cop and your mouth was doing something illegal as fuck and he's gotta strip-search you. His hand tugs at your pants and pulls them and your underwear down over your dick. You help him push them down as far as you can without leaving his mouth, but it's not too hard since he's doing the same thing. "Not fair," you gasp. "You're still fully clothed." You kick away your pants. He's got your jacket off and your shirt half unbuttoned. 

"There we go, talking in short sentences. Much better than the way you were running your mouth earlier." His hand is between you and the wall, leather glove and rough palm rubbing against your ass in a way that should not be legal, someone should call 911 because it's not right. He's pulling you more tightly against him, grinding against you, pants covering an erection that might actually be thicker than yours, but there's no way in a juggalo-created hell you'll ever admit that.

He's got both hands under your ass now, and he's scooped you up, and now you're in a room that looks like an office except that there's a bed in one corner, the only place not covered in weird phallic puppets or the materials used to make them, and now you're on the bed and he's got your shirt unbuttoned and "The fuck are you doing -" and he didn't actually take it off, he just pulled it up to your wrists and he's got it twisted around your arms and tied to the bedframe and "Holy shit -"

Suddenly he's hovering above you, eyes wide. "Shit, are you not into that, I just assumed - damn, I can totally untie you, I should've asked before, can't believe I didn't, I'm a dick -" He's reaching for the shirt and oh  _hell_ no.

You wrap your legs around him and use all your strength to drag him away from your wrists. "I'm into it, dude, just, like, gimme a warning or something, ok? Like, goddamn, we were in the living room and now all of a sudden we're in a bed and my hands are tied and shit, that happened really fast, and I'm totally into it and don't you dare stop but a warning every so often would be great, like if you could just hold up a sign like -" and then you have to stop talking, because he rolled his eyes and took your dick in his mouth, your entire dick, like his chin is poking your balls, and he did it  _really fast_ and you may or may not have made the single most embarrassing noise of your  _life_ because _holy shit_. 

And then he pulls up, and you're not having any of that, and you try and push your hips up but somehow he's holding you down, how the hell is he faster  _and_ stronger than you are - "You talk  _way_ too fucking much. You have  _got_ to shut up."

"What, is it - a fucking - turn-off or something -" You can't quite breathe, because he's a fucking tease. He's completely ignoring your dick, the douchebag, and apparently has a thing for hipbones because he's paying a hell of a lot of attention to yours, and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't perfectly all right with you. He pulls off his shades, briefly revealing the same orange eyes the younger Dirk had. And then his face is pressed against your inner thigh, and you can't see his eyes anymore, but it doesn't matter, because you're not looking, because he's nipping and licking and  _so goddamned close_ to your near-painful erection that your eyes have rolled back into your head. 

His mouth disappears for a moment, and that sure as fuck gets your attention. Your head snaps up just in time to get a front-row foot-and-a-half-away daddy-bought-me-special-tickets view of his torso, thick, muscular, toned like it was photoshopped, scarred like he'd strifed every day of his life. How on earth - or LOHAC, anyway - could anyone stay angry at a body like  _that_? Especially when the act of removing his shirt caused him to stretch up a little, forcing his pants to drop a little, revealing literally everything except his actual dick: thin wisps of blonde hair leading down into his pants, sharp hipbones... "You look like you could be on a Hollister bag."

Dirk tosses away his shirt. "Do I?"

"Yeah. They should have a new line of clothing, full of white polos with the collars permanently turned up and black pants made out of who-knows-what cheap-ass material made specifically for muscular douchebags who do nothing but run around making people horny and -"

His mouth is on your throat, on your Adam's apple, following its bob as you gulp, right up under your chin, tracing your jawline, trailing kisses down your jugular, nipping at the soft spot behind and a little below your ear. "I have a gag in here somewhere. I'll use it if I have to."

Somehow, in the midst of a fog of lust and thoughts of  _please don't stop_ you manage to say something: "But you won't. You want me to moan your name... Dirk... Dirk...  _Dirk_..." You thought you were joking but holy shit he grazed your nipple and that last one was an actual honest-to-weird-alien-God groan and you thought you were kidding about him wanting to hear you but his entire body just jerked and " _Oh god Dirk... DIRK-_!" he's sucking on your nipples and your back is arched and you're finding it hard to breathe but every time you say his name he shudders and if he's got you tied up you're gonna do your best to take whatever control you can. 

So you groan like a top-notch prostitute getting paid per moan and it starts out as your own subversive method of gaining control but he is  _really good_ with his mouth and his mouth is _everywhere_ and you don't understand how it's possible to move that fast, from your neck to your hips to your thigh to your nipples, bitting and licking and sucking and hunting down that sensitive spot just beneath your ribs, and his fingers are  _really close_  to your dick and you're not really faking the moans anymore but it's ok because the way Dirk is shaking he's going to snap -

His mouth envelops yours and silences you. He's barely trying to hold himself up, counting on your musculature to handle his weight. His skin is hot against yours, and his pants are rough against your hard on. You buck your hips up, trying to get the friction you desperately need, and then - he disappears. 

You barely have time to look up before he's back, with lube and a condom, and entirely pantsless. You deeply regret not getting to see him take them off, but you can't stay angry at a dick like that, all proud and happy and slightly wet and ready to pound your ass like a jackhammer. 

You barely see him move, but then he's got your legs hitched around his waist and one of his fingers up your ass, slowly pressing inside you, probably moving more slowly than he's ever moved in his life. You try to make things a little easier, staring at the ceiling and taking deep breaths, relaxing your anus so he can insert a second finger, and begin scissoring them back and forth. The lube that coats his fingers is cold, and you choose to focus on that rather than the strange, uncomfortable feeling of being stretched out. He inserts a third finger, and the discomfort subsides as you get used to the sensation. 

He jabs your prostate.

You see stars.

When your vision clears, you become aware of a slight pain in your wrists - you're tugging at your bonds. You glance at Dirk. 

He grabs your shades and tosses them to the side. "Why the hell are you still wearing those?"

"'Cause you tied me up and never took them off?" You retort, blinking against the light.

He hits your prostate again. 

You yell something that may or may not have been words but was probably almost definitely Dirk's name. You're not quite sure. But judging by the way his dick stands at attention, it was probably almost certainly his name. "D-Dirk..." you whine.

He hits your prostate again. 

And again.

And again.

The world doesn't quite seem to exist anymore, past the sensations rocking your body. You know you're yelling something, probably just "Dirk" on repeat, but you can't actually hear yourself. And when the world comes back into focus, your ass is slowly being filled by that monstrosity. 

You do your best to relax. He does his best to go slow.

When his hips hit your ass, he pauses, panting against your neck. You close your eyes, instantly heightening every sensation: the hot exhale of his breath against your throat, his warm, heavy body against yours, sharply defined scar tissue rough against your smooth skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, and his dick up your ass. Mostly that last one, though. 

When you begin rocking your hips, he begins pulling out, moving slowly so as not to hurt you. You have to admit, judging by the speed with which he tied you up and the haste with which he removed your clothing, you really didn't expect him to be this gentle. 

And then he speeds up, and you realize, he's not actually gentle - just mildly considerate. 

He's very, very rough.

You were wrong, earlier. You understand that through a blurry haze of your moans and his dick hitting your prostate repeatedly. You had said that he lost his accent when he got horny. You were wrong.

His voice is rough, his accent thick, and when he whispers in your ear - as though somehow expecting you to make out his words amid everything else - you hear nothing but a Southern twang and a gravelly voice, rasping against your ear in an attempt to elicit more moans, yells, shreiks, et cetera, whatever sounds you happen to be making, and you can't quite tell. All you know is that you're full one moment, and empty the next, existing in a universe that constantly shifts between unimaginable pleasure and unbearable emptiness. And then there's a calloused hand around your cock, the leather glove gone, and it's stroking you roughly, ravaging the head of your penis, and that's it, that's it for you, you come like fucking Mount Vesuvius, and you want to feel bad because you made a mess but you really don't give half a shit. You can't quite think at the moment, in your tiny world that consists of stars in your eyes and stars up and down your body and aftershakes like miniature earthquakes. By the time you remember that your body consists of flesh and bone and not pure sensation, Dirk is coming inside you, and you pull yourself together enough to clench around him, eliciting a strange sound halfway between a whine and a growl and causing him to nearly collapse on top of you. 

When he finally pulls out, he falls to the side. "Goddamn. All you fuckin' did was look good tied up and moan like a teenager and that was still the best sex I ever had." He removes the condom, ties it off, and tosses it in a garbage can.

"Speaking of being tied up - would you untie me? I feel like an old-timey sex slave, fully reliant on my master to let me go whenever the fuck he -"

Dirk kisses you. When he removes his mouth, your shirt is in his hands, and your wrists are free. "Maybe that's why the sex was so great," he growls. "It was the only time you stopped rambling."

"Fuck you," you mutter. 

"You just did," he chuckles, burrying his head in your neck. "And it was incredible."

You close your eyes and let him slowly kiss you into oblivion.


End file.
